


Our Future Safe As (Gingerbread) Houses

by Malu_3 (Grainne)



Series: Merlin Writers 2014 Holiday Fic-Tac-Toe [2]
Category: Arthurian Mythology, Merlin (TV)
Genre: 2014 Holiday Fic-Tac-Toe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Arthur Pendragon Returns, Arthur-centric, Fate & Destiny, Fix-It of Sorts, Happy Ending, Holiday Traditions, Immortal Merlin, M/M, Mentors, Mind/Mood Altering Substances, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-11
Updated: 2014-12-11
Packaged: 2018-03-01 01:53:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2755175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grainne/pseuds/Malu_3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which young Arthur Pendragon takes secret lessons with an eccentric Dane, lives well but dies poorly, and Merlin pulls out all the stops – including time travel, holiday baking, and upsetting the balance of nature – to ensure a better future for those he loves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Our Future Safe As (Gingerbread) Houses

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Merlin Writers](http://merlin-writers.livejournal.com/) community's 2014 Holiday Fic-Tac-Toe. My card may be found [here](http://malu-3.livejournal.com/11754.html). The prompt for this fic was an image of a cheery gingerbread house decorated with multi-coloured sweets.
> 
> Major character death (Arthur) is temporary. One instance of alcohol/potions use constitutes deliberate drugging and partial mindwipe. Though it may seem like it, no gingerbread, scrumpy, ale, mulled wine or other suspicious mind-altering substances were consumed while writing this story.

When Arthur is seven, he contracts a terrible sickness, not deadly, but so virulent and unpleasant in its symptoms he has to be isolated for fear of spreading the contagion throughout the castle. At least, this is what Gaius tells the king. In truth, one of Cook's rounder nephews is left under guard in Gaius' spare room, moaning theatrically beneath a blanket, and Arthur – on the promise of sweetmeats and a grand adventure – is bundled off in secret through the snowy woods. 

Their destination proves to be a modest hut, lopsided and heavily thatched. It belongs to a charcoal maker, Arthur is told, though this will not be an adventure in charcoal making. He is mightily relieved to hear this. 

There is a great racket coming from within, odd pulses of light flaring through the cracks in the shutters. Imagining all manner of foes behind the unassuming door – bandits, dragons, wicked, bullying princesses – he draws his dagger.

"Sire, I assure you, that's not – " Gaius begins, but the door opens and Arthur steps in. Then… oh, _oh._ A grand adventure, indeed.

The warmth pounces, the air alive and simmering with delicious smells, both like and unlike anything Arthur's ever smelled in the castle kitchens. Floor, furniture, walls, rafters – all chock-a-block with strange and wondrous things, presided over by an equally strange and wondrous old man who, after peering down at Arthur in moist-eyed alarm, clears his throat, fumbles his long snowy beard over one shoulder, and introduces himself as Noogard Hunithsen.

This sends Gaius' eyebrows soaring, and Arthur wonders if it's at the funny sound of the name, or at the fact that it's clearly a lie.

"But you, young man, can call me the Dane," the old man adds, hurry-scurry, and Gaius' face relaxes. He gives a soft grunt and nods to let Arthur know it's safe to introduce himself.

Drawing himself up to his full height, Arthur sheathes his dagger and pushes back the hood of the rough cloak. "I'm Prince Arthur," he says, hating the bright girlish bell-peal of his voice. He focuses, instead, on spearing the old man with his eyes, thinking, _I see I command I conquer I see I command I..._

It works on nearly every adult Arthur knows. 

The Dane merely beams down at Arthur as if he's announced he farts gold and says, "Yes, you are, of course you are. Shall we begin? I've loads to teach you, and not much…"

He sighs, clicks his tongue, shakes his head. Then he's laughing – a bit too loud and jangling for comfort – and clapping his hands together. 

"The gingerbread!" he cries. "Mustn't burn, back in a tic, you'll love it, I swear."

He turns on his heel and disappears into the rear of the hut, which is screened by a curtain of very soft-looking cloth in a lurid shade of purple. It is not, Arthur thinks, a fabric at all suitable for a charcoal-maker.

Resting a hand on Arthur's shoulder, Gaius kneels down so they are eye to eye. "He may have his eccentricities," he says, "but you must trust me, sire, this Dane is a very learned man, and a great friend of the kingdom. Whatever tasks he sets you, whatever knowledge he shares, you must promise – "

They are interrupted by an almighty clatter from the rear of the hut, followed by the Dane's bellowed, "Buggershite and tarnation!" Arthur has no idea what the words mean, but knows an oath when he hears one. A moment later the Dane reappears, beard and robes splattered with dark, fragrant dough.

"Gingerbread's a no go, at least for today. Bicarb soda's still in a sulk. Warned it not to listen to sugar's gossip, but – hrm. Yes. Well. Fish and chips do for tea? Expect you could murder a double portion of cod and chips, couldn’t you, sturdy little lord like yourself."

Trying to follow the Dane's words is a bit like stalking squirrels. Arthur narrows his eyes at the sparkle and smile, attempts to pick off some meaning. "Fishing's not murder," he says at last. 

The Dane pauses in flicking crumbs from his beard, eyebrows caught mid-jig. "Have you asked the fish about that?"

"What? Fish can't – no!" 

"Well then." The Dane shrugs, his smile spreading. He's clearly mad, but there is something about the twinkle in his eyes, about the way he looks at Arthur as if he is really, truly _there_ that makes him feel as tall as any of the knights.

"That, however," the Dane goes on, "is a lesson for a warmer day. Just now I only meant it as a figure of speech, implying that you must be very hungry, coming all this way on an empty stomach. Are you?"

Arthur hesitates only a moment before nodding. Just once, chin held high. 

"Excellent!" The Dane claps his hands together, rubbing them vigorously back and forth. "Gaius, would you care to join us? I've got scrumpy, seems to have weathered the journey all right."

Gaius hems and haws, then says, "I would, my boy, more than you know, but I fear I must get back to the castle. If Uther demands to see him…"

"Yes, yes. Of course. Wouldn’t want any harm to come to the lad. Cook'll have your guts for garters."

Arthur watches the two men embrace – not brief back pats, but full-on squeezing – at a loss to explain their relationship. Nor why Gaius would call the Dane "my boy" when he looks about a hundred if he's a day, and Gaius is just starting to go grey.

* * * 

Time goes funny for those ten days, dragging out as slow and thick as the syrup that goes into the gingerbread, then speeding up with the _whizz bang pop_ of whatever new toy or gadget the Dane produces to illustrate some point; it seems to disappear altogether during act-out-the-story time and romps through the glistening snow.

Citing the customs of his land, the Dane brings a tree inside the hut, insists Arthur help drape it with glittering baubles, strings of fruit and nuts and tiny candle flames that burn for hours, yet are cool to the touch. On top he places a large blue butterfly, finely wrought in metal and glass and glowing from within.

"Is it…is this _magic_?" Arthur asks. He's wanted to, for days, but feared that an honest answer would mean having to leave, making decisions about people's secrets and lives that he's not sure he's ready to make.

The Dane looks down at him, the lights from the tree turning his hair and beard into a shimmering waterfall, blue and silver and gold. His eyes are solemn, his smile sad. He takes a long time in answering.

"I swear to you, Arthur Pendragon, there is nothing in this hut – nothing you have seen or learned here – that does not come from the minds and hearts of ordinary men and women. Will that do for an answer?"

Arthur considers, watching the Dane watching him. He remembers leaping down from a tree onto the Dane's back earlier, startling bright laughter from him, their game of hide-and-seek abandoned for whirling in giddy spirals out in the snow. Remembers the deft, no-fuss care over the splinters in his palms, same as that given to crushed paws or broken wings, their owners perched or curled about the hut until they regain their strength. Remembers the hand resting warm and steady on his back after a nightmare, the assurance that only those who know fear can be truly brave.

"Yes," he says.

"Good." The Dane smiles. "Then let's put the finishing touches on our gingerbread cottage."

* * * 

Arthur sees the Dane several more times during his youth, always in the depth of winter. He gathers, from what he overhears of whispered conversations with Gaius, that the Dane wishes he could visit more frequently, but that the distance he must travel makes it difficult. Each time, he seems a little sadder, a little more scattered. The lessons, too, change over the years, but there is always fresh gingerbread, both for eating and building.

The Dane is very particular about the gingerbread cottage. He allows Arthur a great deal of freedom in most things, but the cottage must have its three chimneys just _so_ , its hodgepodge of peaks and gables and an alarming number of large, defenceless windows. He repeatedly denies Arthur's requests to furnish the cottage with murder holes, a ring wall, a moat filled with fire. _Something._

At thirteen, Arthur figures it out. "This is your home, isn't it? Or was?"

The Dane turns away, rummaging in a bowl of sweets. "I have no home," he says softly. "Not yet. But this is very like the place I live now. I hoped you'd like it…that you will, I mean, one day. If."

Arthur is used to such eccentricities of speech by now, the pauses and dog-legs, unfamiliar words glossed over or scrubbed away with the wave of a hand. He reaches over the Dane's wrist, chooses one of the green jelly-like lumps they're using for shrubbery.

From its perch in the rafters, a mangy-looking red squirrel – the Dane's current patient, and very loyal, too – begins to chitter and scold, fixing Arthur with its beady eyes. He sticks his tongue out at it before smashing the sweet into the icing along the front path.

"It's all right," he mutters. "Never last five minutes in a siege though. What do you do when the neighbours come raiding?"

"Why, I give them a cup of sugar." The Dane refocuses on Arthur, his expression easing into one of amusement. "Or an egg, pint of milk, teabags, whatever they're after. That usually does the trick."

"Wouldn’t with Odin's men. Nor Bayard's."

"Ah, well, the Banerjees are much more pleasant, and the Kendricks are all bark and no bite."

Privately, Arthur wonders how the whole lot of them haven't wound up under the thumb of some greedy warlord, but he concedes that things may work differently in a land that bakes houses, coddles squirrels, and drapes trees in finery as if they were queens.

* * * 

By sixteen, it's harder to get away unnoticed, or to stay for more than a few days. Arthur thinks he's too old for gingerbread houses at any rate, and begins to wish he'd ignored Gaius' summons and gone out with Pellinore on patrol. The Dane is constantly pacing and muttering to himself; just now he's watching Arthur re-sole his own boot with tragic eyes.

Then, from far-off, there is the sound of a horn, the baying of dogs. The Dane starts, scowling.

"They're searching for Druids," Arthur says. "They’ve been seen hereabouts. Rumour has it several bands of them are massing along the eastern border. Don’t suppose you met any on your journey?"

"Pah!" The Dane spits over his shoulder, glares at Arthur. "What sort of question is that? Have I taught you nothing, young man?"

"Nothing useful, apparently," Arthur retorts, banging the hammer down on the workbench. He gets to his feet, gesturing around the hut. As ever when the Dane is in residence, it's twinkling with lights, fragrant with good smells and packed to the rafters with odd things and creatures in various states of repair. There is an owl nesting in the tree, a young pine marten curled up in Arthur's cloak.

"I'm not a child any longer. Nor am I a scholar, cook, healer, woodsman, fisherman or bloody _cobbler._ I'll admit it's been fun, our time out here, but I'm meant to be king someday. I don't see – "

"And will you not," the Dane cuts in, whirling round, eyes blazing, "be king over cobblers and cooks, over the fish and the trees, even the birds of the air? How will you know how best to rule them if you do not understand? How will you know if what your advisors say is true unless you can learn it for yourself?"

Arthur blinks, taken aback by this fierce, not-at-all-doddering version of his mentor. But he knows the answer to this, has heard his father say it on many an occasion. "A king cannot be all to all people." The Dane rolls his eyes at this. Arthur clenches his hands into fists, feeling the heat creep up his cheeks. "He must learn to judge men, judge what is in their hearts and inspire them accordingly to do what needs to be done."

"To use them, you mean."

"If need be, for the good of the kingdom."

"Aha! But what if it isn't?" The Dane steps nearer, until they are toe-to-toe. "For the good, I mean. And how would you even measure such a thing?"

"By the state of the roads," Arthur says, feeling on surer footing now, "the crops in the fields, the food in people's bellies. By seeing the borders secure and the laws upheld."

The Dane purses his lips, cocks his head. "Full bellies I’ll grant you, but borders and laws are only as just as those that make them."

Arthur snorts. "Now you sound like Morgana."

The Dane gasps, his eyes going impossibly wide. Arthur feels a lick of chill up his spine, wonders if he's said something unforgiveable. Then the Dane is clutching him by the shoulders, shaking him, laughing.

"That's it!" he cries. "You, you'll get there just fine, one way or another. Bit bumpy, but still, Morgana's the one who needs my – oh, why didn’t I think of that before? Come here, yes, come along now. Don’t look at me like that, I'm merely happy, you daft boy, not loose in the noodle. This calls for a celebration!"

Arthur lets himself be manhandled onto a bench. The Dane disappears behind the purple curtain, re-emerges with two steaming goblets.

"Er, what's this?" Arthur says, sniffing at his. It's nothing like the cider or ales they've shared previously.

"Mulled wine. Drink up, future king – to your very great health!"

Arthur lifts his goblet and drinks deep, glad they are friends again, though puzzled by the Dane's words. He hopes Morgana isn't going to be invited to share their lessons. It's bad enough that she insists on sparring with him in full view of the knights. And sometimes wins.

The wine is warm and spicy, and goes down easily. The last thing Arthur remembers is a strong hand, easing his head onto a cushion, a warm murmur at his ear.

"…and to our future, _fy nghariad_ , safe as houses."

* * * 

Arthur wakes to a dog licking his face. Then to Gaius mopping his brow. Then to a needling ray of sunshine, a persistent pressure in his bladder, and Gwen – good soul that she is – trying to convince Morgana that borrowing Arthur's hunting leathers without asking is definitely not part of the Knight's Code. They tell him he was struck with fever out in the forest, along with half the patrol.

"How long have I been…?"

"Gone for three days, sire," Gwen replies, putting herself between her mistress and Arthur's wardrobe, "and asleep for as much again. We'll just go inform Gaius you're awake, won't we?"

Morgana tosses her hair over her shoulder and sticks her tongue out at him as she swans from the room, just as she did when they were small.

Arthur puzzles over Gwen's words. He has no memory of being on patrol. When he closes his eyes, he can see tiny lights, winking and blinking. A whole dreamscape of wintry delights, lessons dressed up as adventures. A man's voice, egging him on:

_"Yes, that's it! Daresay you've got the hang of it now!"_

In time the details of the dream fade, but Arthur still gets a thrill at certain scents, certain tastes, the first signs of snow. There is a lingering scrape of loneliness, too, one that's got nothing to do with Arthur's titles, nor his duties, and that no distraction can completely erase. 

Then, one day – a few months before his eighteenth birthday – a brash, gangling peasant boy challenges Arthur on the training ground. He acts like he is amused by Arthur when he should be afraid. His eyes are very blue. They seem to promise adventure.

It takes Arthur months to admit to himself that this was the very day – the very hour – his loneliness ended, years to work out what this means, and years more to speak it aloud. By then he is almost too late. 

Almost.

* * * 

By the time the last of the gold in Arthur's beard gives way to grey, he is skilled at many things. Dying, however, does not appear to be one of them.

He doesn't cross over, as expected. Doesn't fade into the dim dark nothing, nor merge with all the other souls beyond the Veil. Instead, he finds himself trapped on the Isle of Apples, where it is never winter and everything smells of mead. 

It's tolerable at first. He enjoys the scent of mead. He's left to wander as he pleases, swapping battle stories with the other residents, mostly legendary kings and queens with the odd martyr, priestess or hero of legend. 

Then the Nine Sisters start following him, eyeing him up, shaking their heads. One day they get him alone, corner him on a rise overlooking the lake. 

"Look, Pendragon, you came in here as Resurrection Track to begin with – "

"And with all Emrys' Premier Destiny Points piling up – "

"Damned immortals. You'd think with all eternity before him he'd consider playing the field, but _no_."

"Afraid it's got to be you, love. The sooner the better."

"You're straining the Veil."

"It's upsetting the others here on the Isle."

"And he's causing surges in the Bristol Channel, which – "

"Pining will do that, if you're Emrys."

" – disrupts the local eco… er, thingy."

"Ecology, dear. Or economy. I always get those two mixed up."

"As you should, dear sister. Point being, blondiebear, I'm afraid your time here is up. You've got to go back to the real world."

Arthur boggles at the lot of them as a fierce wind starts whipping up off the water, nipping his ears, tugging at his cloak. "I haven’t the faintest idea what you're talking about," he says. He thinks he's done all that needed doing, all that he could. He thinks he's earned his rest. They smile at him fondly, but with a bit of lip-curl and eye-roll to it, much like Morgana, and crowd in closer.

"Bad news is, things there are dicked beyond your blue-blooded control."

"Good news is, power's shifting into the hands of the people. So long as you show up and never give up, there's no need to go charging in on a white horse waving your sword around."

"In fact, that would be highly problematic."

"Not recommended."

"So you're free to shag like bunnies between missions."

"Or workshops."

"Demonstrations."

"Feeding the poor."

"Patching up strays."

They're still yammering – and smiling – as they push Arthur into the lake.

* * * 

When Arthur wakes, he finds himself in a sodden mass of shrubbery studded with tiny candles. He is wet as well, and chilled to the bone. He holds his hands up to the flames, but they give off no warmth. For some reason, this excites him.

He hauls himself to his feet and looks around. He's at the side of a road, but like no road he's seen before, gleaming black under the icy rain. On both sides there is a strip of flat ground, and beyond that, rows of squat stone buildings marching away up a hill. Many, like his shrub, are festooned with lights. White and gold, but also red. Blue. Green. Some of them are blinking on and off, on and off. It sets off a cascade of memories. Dreams half-remembered, from what seems like lifetimes ago; the promise of sweetmeats and grand adventure. The old Dane and his gingerbread houses.

Arthur closes his eyes and sniffs at the air, turning slowly round. Yes, ginger. Wood smoke. Cinnamon. Cloves. And – 

There is a rattle and bang. A shrill voice calls out, " _Hei! Ti'n fan'na!_ What're you doing in my azaleas, so? Best not be having a sneaky wee, or I'll wake Mister Kendrick and – "

Arthur spots it the instant he opens his eyes. Two doors down and across the road, set further back than the other houses. A cottage with three chimneys just _so_ , a hodgepodge of peaks and gables, and an alarming number of large, defenceless windows. Each one has a candle in, glowing gold between thick drapes. There is smoke puffing from the chimneys. 

Arthur looks over his shoulder, lifts a hand to the woman in the window. She clutches her robes round her with one hand, flaps at him with the other.

"Yes, that's it, shoo, you old tosspot! _Cer o 'ma!_ "

Arthur does, grinning at the tirade that follows him, a grumble about "that _gwallgofddyn_ Emrys" and all his drunkards and strays. As he crosses the road, he feels the cold prickle-kiss of snow on his bare skin; the rain's changing over. By the time he reaches the cottage door, the grounds – all the shrubs and potted trees, the curved strips of lawn on either side of the path – are peppered with white.

He's not one-hundred per cent certain who he'll find on the other side of the door, but he knows, deep in his bones, that this is the right place. The drapes are purple. The door is red. Above the knocker is an ornament, a great blue butterfly wrought of metal and glass. Drawing himself up to his full height, Arthur knocks.

* * * 

For a moment Arthur sees the Dane, Dolma the midwife, the dotty old sorcerer who helped Morgana save their father's life. Then the air shimmers and it's a young man before him, all gangling limbs and brash smile, with eyes that promise adventure.

"Hello, Merlin," Arthur says. Then, recalling the Sisters' words, he adds, "Apparently I'm here to put a stop to you doing something terrible to the Bristol Channel. And to shag like bunnies, though you know I prefer our relations to be face to face."

"Oh thank fuck, the stars, all the saints and the Triple Goddess!" Merlin reaches for his hands, pulling him inside. Reaches for his face, pulling him in for a kiss. 

Arthur feels the years melt away along with his beard, all the stiffness and ache drained out like so much dirty bathwater, leaving him warm and dry. His skin tingles. His cock stirs. His bones are practically singing.

"How did you die?" Merlin whispers when they finally pull apart.

"Don't you remember?"

Merlin closes his eyes, nudges his face alongside Arthur's. Arthur can feel every part of his breath.

"I want you to tell me."

"Poorly, apparently, as it didn’t take," Arthur teases. At Merlin's hitched sob, he lifts a hand and strokes his hair. Not a ruffle or affectionate pat, but full-on, cradling Merlin's head, the dark strands like warm silk through his fingers. He remembers the first time he dared do this; his hand was not so smooth then, nor so pale. "But you were at my side, as were Morgana and Gwen. Morgana's twins, all Gwen and Leon's brats – and _their_ brats – even Gwaine, the old rogue. Finally kissed my ring, or near enough."

"Handsome fellow. Went blind as a bat in the end," Merlin murmurs. "Just like Sir Olwen. Elyan told him it was…that it was because…"

At Merlin's sound of distress, Arthur jumps in. "Because he couldn’t keep his eyes to himself, or his hands off his own prick."

"Yes." Merlin muffles a sound against Arthur's shoulder, half-sob, half sigh. "Yes, _yes,_ that's it. Arthur?"

"What is it, oh idiot mine?"

Merlin rears back, eyes damp. He beams at Arthur as if he's announced he farts gold. "Welcome home."

"Thank you, Merlin. I – " Arthur pauses, wrinkling his nose. "What's that smell?"

Seconds later, a shrill sound pierces the air, making Arthur wince. "The gingerbread!" Merlin cries, whipping round. "Burnt again, oh buggershite and tarnation!"

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Welsh bits, loosely (may be dubious, not a native speaker, feel free to school me if you are):
> 
> Merlin to Arthur: _fy nghariad_ \- my love  
>  Mrs Kendrick to Arthur: _Hei! Ti'n fan'na!/Cer o 'ma!_ \- Oi! You there!/Get lost! and she refers to Merlin as a _gwallgofddyn_ \- madman.
> 
> I don't know that [Mizufae](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Mizufae/profile) was the first or only person to ever refer to Arthur as "blondiebear" but she's the best at it, so she gets the credit.


End file.
